


when i run out of road, you bring me home

by quidhitch



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Canon Divergence - Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Exes, M/M, Pining, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Slow Burn, after thanos is defeated tony buys a farm thats the whole premise l o l, more tags to be added probs, this is post A4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-07-23 06:01:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16153091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quidhitch/pseuds/quidhitch
Summary: “Oh, I won’t bother you.” The tone of Steve’s voice implies that he definitely will be bothering Tony, aggressively and frequently. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll keep to my farm, you keep to yours. Solitude together.”Tony opens his mouth to argue that that’s not how this works, but he snaps it shut at the realization that Steven Grant Rogers is fucking with him. That twinkle in his eye has accelerated into a full-on glimmer, and the ends of his lips are twitching. Jesus, he hates this man. Or maybe he wishes he did. Tony can’t really tell the difference anymore.





	1. i will take the chain from off the door

**Author's Note:**

> maya writes a multi-chaptered work for the first time in literal years we'll see how it goes lmao.... i know some of you are gonna be #shook that i ship this but listen... i watched avengers (2012) when i was thirteen and these characters fell in love and i'll never let it go

After Thanos falls, Tony buys a farm in upstate New York.

The city feels haunted. Peter is alive, but every time Tony sees him there’s this burgeoning anxiety in his chest, like each second they spend together is a second he’s at risk to ash away. It’s pretty much the same with Pepper, he’s both terrified to be in the same room with her and terrified to leave her unguarded, a confusing combination of impulses that sets his teeth on edge every time they try for a casual conversation. He keeps looking for threats over her shoulder, spends entire nights sitting at the foot of their bed watching the door.

“You need help, Tony,” she tells him. She runs her hand through his hair, presses warm kisses along his forehead. His eyes close against tears.

“I know,” he croaks, but he doesn’t know who can help him, really.

She fights him on leaving the city, and so does Rhodey. They argue that he needs people, he needs his loved ones to recover. And maybe that’s true, but he’s tried to let them heal him for months now. He thinks he owes solitude it’s fair shot.

So he buys a farm. No animals, but there’s a plot of arable land and a barn Tony can convert into a workshop. It’s manageable for one person. The man Tony buys it from is discreet, agrees easily to the NDA that’ll keep him from disclosing Tony’s location to the press. He gives Happy, Rhodey, and Pepper his address, but he asks them not to visit for a bit. Not forever, just until he figures out how to get the panic in his chest under control. Their eyes are full of pity and understanding and Tony has never felt more like a coward than in the moments leading up to his goodbye.

He drives himself out there in a truck, of all things, ‘cause he can’t take one of the sports cars. It’s a stick. Takes him about 2 minutes to get the hang of it.

The drive is peaceful. Tony makes himself a cassette in preparation. He’ll put Friday in the truck later, but for now he’s content to listen to the same eleven AC/DC tracks on repeat.

When he whizzes past a sign that declares he’s officially outside city limits, his breath feels a little looser in his chest.

 

* * *

 

His solitude lasts about three days.

It’s a nice three days, to be honest. He spends them in the lab, modifying the truck, tinkering with his newest clean energy solutions, installing artificial intelligence into casual household appliances. He doesn’t touch the armor, doesn’t touch weaponry of any kind, really, even the thought makes him sick to his stomach. It just feels pointless to create things that will only ever destroy.

He rests a little, too. He’s not very good at it - always bringing a notebook out onto the porch to scribble new ideas into - but it’s nice to lay in the sun for an hour or two, skin soaking up the heat as he sips at an iced coffee. It’s quiet out there, but Tony can fill a silence like no one else - he works with loudly clanging tools, he talks to himself, he talks to his bots, and he pumps his terribly loud and screechy classic rock into the air. Sometimes the quiet is eerie, and sometimes it’s nice, like Tony doesn’t have to strain to hear himself think.

Like he said, it’s a good three days, which is exactly how Tony knew it wouldn’t be long ‘til something came along to ruin it.

On the morning of the fourth day, a tiny darkskinned girl with google marks around her eyes and oil stains all over her cheeks turns up on Tony’s doorstep.

Tony blinks, narrowing his eyes at her. She’s not with the press - she looks too young to write for something other than the Middle School Gazette, and she appears to be holding a prototypical piece of iron man armor.

“What are you?” Tony asks, resisting the urge to duck behind the door.

She scowls at him. “Riri. But never mind that.” She thrusts out the tech in her hand, and Tony can’t help but peer curiously at it. At an initial glance, he assesses that the work is rough but impressive. It’s the kind of approximation of his own armor that a child shouldn’t be able to make. “I can’t get this quite right. Help me and I’ll leave you alone forever. Or until I run into another serious roadblock, which will be spaced out relatively far in the future because I am a literal genius.”

“How did you find me?” Tony presses, though he suspects it has something to do with the “literal genius” bit.

Riri snorts and folds her arms over her chest, cocking her hip to one side. “Was it supposed to be hard?”

She’s pretty funny, so he invites her down to the workshop. He doesn’t work with her on her armor - he can’t bring himself to do that - but they tinker with the truck’s engine together, and he gives her a crash course on building an AI with personality.

She’s not like Peter, not in the big ways. She’s too smart for her own good, but seems annoyed that she needs his help in the first place, seems like she’d much rather do this without him. That’s what mitigates the guilt in his stomach at bringing yet another child into the vicinity of his fucked up guidance. Riri knows she doesn’t need him, and she doesn’t care for him beyond his expertise in the workshop. 

“Why aren’t you building suits anymore?” she asks, apropos of nothing. It isn’t even really the toughest question she’s hit him with tonight - she’d stared him right in the face after insinuating his fiancé left him for his best friend.

“Just don’t feel like it, I guess,” Tony shrugs, handing her a pair of needle-nosed pliers. She takes them silently, fiddling with the motherboard of Tony’s newest supercomputer. “Lost my muse, whatever the fuck that means.”

“If you’re the one who’s saying it, shouldn’t you know what it means?”

“Nope. Fun fact, I hardly ever know what the hell I’m talking about.”

He thinks he sees a smile twitch at the corner of her mouth. He smiles a little too. She reminds him of himself, and it’s been a while since Tony met someone this much like him. Maybe even forever.

“Are you thirteen?”

“Fifteen,” she corrects, glancing up from her work and giving him the kind of murderous glare that would make Pepper proud. “Fifteen, but I’ve already witnessed someone die, gone to college, and learned how to file my family’s taxes. Only an idiot would treat me like a normal fifteen-year-old.”

“No,” Tony says, shaking his head and silently correcting an error in a line of her code. “No, only someone who really loved you would do that.”

 

* * *

 

Despite Riri’s disclaimer, she starts coming to the farm almost every day. Tony wishes he could be annoyed about it but she really is an intelligent, fascinating kid, and she’s recently dropped out of MIT, so if she’s not spending the day in his workshop then the only person she’s got to learn from is herself.It’s not that he does a lot of teaching, really, but he gives a helpful guiding hint every now and then, usually at her prompting.

He isn’t some kind of mentor. He makes sure he knows that, makes sure she’s certain he’s temporary. And he refuses to help her with her armor. He can’t keep enabling the presence of children in wars that grown men started.

It’s only a little ironic that this thought passes through his head on the morning of the sixth day, when Steve Rogers turns up at his front doorstep.

He’s expecting Riri so he’s been in the shop all morning, and the second he stops working he's hit with a backlog of exhaustion. Even with the quiet, he doesn’t sleep so well, only two or three hours a night. It’s the kind of thing that’s not really sustainable now that he’s no longer in his twenties.

He’s still rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses as he opens the door, sipping slowly at his seventh cup of coffee. When Steve comes into focus, he nearly does a spit take.

“No,” he says and slams the door shut, pressing his back against it. He’s certain he will regret this initial reaction in a few moments, but he needs a beat to catch his breath. Who gave Steve this address? How did he even get out here? Did he ride the motorcycle four whole hours outside the city?

…yeah, Tony thinks. Yeah. He probably did.

Once Tony wrangles his initial shock into something manageable, he moves on to having a hard time understanding _why_ the hell he’d be here in the first place. The universe does not appear to be in crisis, and even if the hard feelings between them had faded during their round two with Thanos, they weren’t — they weren’t casual, like this. They were no longer the kind of people who could just drop in on each other. Tony loved Steve and Steve loved him, but something about their last parting had seemed… final. Like Steve was letting him go, no flip phone to tether them together this time. It had hurt, but it had also felt like the cleanest break he could hope to get.

No such luck, apparently.

He takes another breath, turns around, and opens the door with slightly quivering fingers. He leaves the chain on, peeking at Steve from the space behind the doorjamb. Steve has his hands in his pockets and he’s wearing his brown leather jacket, faded and ruggedly charming as always. He’s clean-shaven, to Tony’s surprise, and his hair is styled in a neat trim. Underneath his unbuttoned flannel he’s wearing a neat white t-shirt that’s, as usual, half a size too small for him.

He looks good. It makes Tony want to slam the door shut again.

“Something I can help you with, Rogers?” Tony asks, drumming his fingers against the doorjamb.

Steve's entirely unashamed as he meets Tony’s gaze, eyes startling, blue, and sharp. “Just wanted to see you.”

“I’m not really taking visitors right now,” Tony considers calling him ‘Steven’ as a power move, but ultimately decides against it. Probably too petty. He’ll stow it away for later usage though, just in case. “How did you get this address?”

Steve shrugs casually, the rise and fall of his absurdly broad shoulders feeling more like a conviction than an innocuous gesture. _Anthony Edward Stark is hereby sentenced to spend the next three hours questioning his stupidly handsome_ ex something _. In return, he will receive a series of vague, frustrating answers that either make him want to tear his own hair out or tear Steve’s clothes off._ Tony thinks it’s really a toss up on which one it could be.

“—Well. You can’t stay. I’ll call a cab for you,” Tony takes another sip of his coffee and pulls the chain off the door, ‘cause he’s feeling a little ridiculous having a conversation like that. He leans resolutely against the frame, trying to emphasize that Steve is entirely unwelcome in Tony’s home.

“No need,” Steve’s doing the thing where he’s not quite smiling, but his eyes are sparkling like something’s really amused him. Tony used to love that face, he used to think he’d move mountains for that face. Now it just translates to a dull ache in the space where the arc reactor used to be. “I’m staying in town, actually. I’m renting a room with Mr. MacDonald. Kinda funny, right? Old MacDonald’s really got a farm.”

“Steve,” Tony interrupts, although, it is extremely hilarious that Old MacDonald has a farm and he will be capitalizing on that irony in his phone call to Pepper this weekend, “you cannot stay in the town that I’m staying in. That - it defeats the point of me buying this place with the express purpose of getting some much-needed solitude.”

“Oh, I won’t bother you.” The tone of Steve’s voice implies that he definitely will be bothering Tony, aggressively and frequently. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll keep to my farm, you keep to yours. Solitude together.”

Tony opens his mouth to argue that that’s not how this works, but he snaps it shut at the realization that Steven Grant Rogers is fucking with him. That twinkle in his eye has accelerated into a full-on glimmer, and the ends of his lips are twitching. Jesus, he hates this man. Or maybe he wishes he did. Tony can’t really tell the difference anymore.

“Fine,” Tony grumbles, rubbing at his forehead. “Yeah, okay, fine. Whatever. Just— I’m busy, most of the time. With my solitude. So seriously, don’t expect me to go jogging with you or anything.”

“The whole time I’ve known you, have I ever asked you to go jogging with me?”

“It was just an example.”

“Maybe I’d ask you to go for a walk, or to watch a movie with me, but jogging? Jesus, Tony, I’m not trying to kill you.”

Tony very graciously decides he’s not going to say anything to that. “Why are you still here, Steve?”

“I’m in a bit of a tough spot, actually,” Steve starts, expression far too innocent to actually be innocent. When they were…. doing whatever they were doing, five years ago, Tony had been a master at distinguishing moments of Genuine Steve Rogers Confusion At The Modern World and moments of Genuine Steve Rogers Assholery. “Mr. MacDonald went into the city to get mulch from the really, really good mulch suppliers - you know, the people who make the ethical stuff? Anyways, I actually left my key inside the house, so I’m locked out until he gets back. Was wondering if we could hang out. Just for a bit. Wouldn’t want to infringe too much on your solitude.”

Steve gives him this faux-dumb-blonde smile, like _oh silly me_. He’s laying it on pretty thick, it feels like some kind of strange role reversal. His face alone is this horrifying mixture of hope and snark that’s doing something to Tony; dulling the sharp edge of his judgment, making him feel a little soft in the head.

Tony gives him eyes, eyes that say ‘you are not nearly as cute as you think you are’. The effect is probably undercut by the fact that he opens the door just the slightest bit wider and steps backward, making room for Steve to slip through.

 

* * *

 

Steve stays the whole day. True to his word, he doesn’t actually bother Tony. He sits in the workshop, stationed next to DUM-E, and pulls a beat out paperback out of his pocket. Tony tells himself he doesn’t care what Steve’s reading, but he steals a glance at the cover anyways.

“Jane Austen?” he asks, brow raised.

“I like the happy endings,” Steve explains, smiling softly at the page.

Tony hates the feeling of fondness creeping into his chest and elects to look abruptly away, shaking his head in (completely fake) disapproval.

Riri shows up about an hour later. She doesn’t seem particularly impressed with Steve, which is a bummer because Tony introduced him as Captain America with the express purpose of racking up cool points.

“Sam’s Captain America right now,” Steve had corrected, idly turning the page. “I’m just Steve.”

Interest had flickered in Tony at that revelation, but he held off asking. If he wasn’t careful he’d end up designing Sam a new suit and wings, then promising repairs for Bucky’s arm, then a new taser for Nat, and before he knew it he’d be slated to move back into the tower by Saturday morning.

Riri is completely unperturbed by Steve’s presence. She’s just as driven, determined, and prickly as always, inexperienced yet full of a kind of innovative genius even Tony doesn’t think he’d tapped into at that age. There’s something sad fueling her, he’s certain. _I’ve watched someone die_ , she said. Must’ve been someone important.

“The trajectory on the repulsor blast is coming along nicely. Would come along faster if you helped.”

“You know, Riri, they say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.”

“Funny,” Riri muses, giving the wrench in her fist a hard jerk. The engine roars to life beneath her hands. “Sounds like science to me.”

“Repulsor blast?” Steve asks, looking up from his book with sudden, sharp curiosity. Dread settles in the pit of Tony’s stomach.

Riri, however, looks delighted by the inquiry. She grabs her briefcase and starts unloading the pieces of her suit - red and gold, just like Tony’s, but clearly made for a tinier body, and she’s put the arc technology at the center of her forehead rather than her chest. She starts prattling on about a thousand things Steve barely has the minimum knowledge to understand. He is unfailingly polite, though, so he nods sweetly and asks questions and tells her how smart she is. The whole exchange makes Tony scowl into his schematics.

“So why has Tony refused to help you with all this?” Steve asks, arms folded over his chest. The question may be directed at Riri, but Tony’s clearly the one Steve’s expecting an answer from.

“I think that’s enough science for today,” Tony stands up, rolling Riri’s plans up decisively. “Isn’t it past your bedtime, Williams?”

“It’s 9 PM.”

“My point still stands.”

Riri rolls her eyes at him, but she’s never outright rebuked one of his dismissals. Tony gets the sense that she doesn’t think she deserves… this - whatever this is, access to his resources and his knowledge. Tony wants to tell her she actually deserves so much more, but that’s the sort of encouragement a mentor gives to his mentee, and as he’s established, he doesn’t need another one of those relationships. The only way that ends is in Riri ashing away or getting blown up or finding herself trapped in some other reality with Tony left behind to explain to her mother how the hell this happened.

Steve insists on driving Riri home, although she tells him a thousand times she can take the bus. When he gets back, he makes Tony a late dinner. Tony would argue but he’s far too tired for it and, frankly, he’s found this whole ‘cooking for himself everyday’ set-up to be more than a little exhausting.

Steve makes pasta that’s covered in sun-dried tomatoes and some kind of creamy sauce with bits of bacon in it. He puts garlic bread in the oven as well. Tony sits on the counter beside the stove and steals tastes off the end of his spoon when he’s not looking.

“Why won’t you help Riri with her armor?” Steve asks, slapping gently at one of Tony’s wrists as he tries to wriggle a semi-cooked noodle out of the pot.

“Because she’s fifteen. Fifteen-year-olds shouldn’t be making armor, they should be reading Twilight and asking each other to the high school dance.”

“Is that what you were doing at fifteen?”

“No,” Tony says, exasperated, “but that’s the point. That’s what I should have been doing at fifteen, maybe then I wouldn’t be so… I don’t know. Pick a character flaw from SHIELD’s laundry list. She’s just too young. She’s not even really a person, yet, she’s like a little prototype.”

“Tony, do you honestly think Thanos got the upper hand because you didn’t go to a high school dance when you were fifteen?” Steve’s got this voice, that one that’s both gentle and frustrated at the same time. This voice says ‘be kinder to yourself, you giant moron’. This voice says ‘I love you so much, why don’t you love yourself too?’

Admittedly, it had been a lot more effective before Siberia. Though they’ve mostly forgiven each other, Tony gets these flashes of anger from time to time, these moments of pure frustration at Steve for not being able to see the wider picture, the one that had been building in his head since the first time he saw Thanos during the fight against the Chitauri in Manhattan.

“No, Steve, Thanos got the upper hand because we let our interpersonal bullshit get in the way of saving the world. Maybe if we were both well-adjusted adults without the aforementioned laundry list of character flaws, then Zemo wouldn’t have been able to break us so easily.”

“You expect too much of yourself,” Steve shakes his head, expression sad and mild as he stirs the pasta, “you always do. Nobody ever grows out of making mistakes, Tony, no matter how normal their childhood was. Seems like Riri’s going to build the armor with or without you, because some people, no matter how hard they fight it, were never meant to be normal. She wants more, and she’s one of the few people capable enough to get it on her own.”

Tony falls silent, working his jaw in irritation. There is logic in what Steve’s saying - there always is, that’s what makes this so hard every time - but Tony can’t work past the lingering fear that has made a home in his chest. He’s not strong enough to go through another Peter. He’s too old, too tired, and too broken, and Steve’s too in love with him to see that.

“We can stop talking about this, or I can send you home and eat this entire pot of pasta by myself. Your pick.”

Steve scowls at the ultimatum, and it dimly registers that if they’d had this argument five years ago, they’d probably be having angry-work-through-your-feelings sex right now. In lieu of that, they eat dinner in complete silence and trade glares from opposite ends of the table. It only adds to Tony’s anger that the pasta is so fucking good. They wash the dishes side by side, Steve scrubbing and Tony drying. Maybe, Tony thinks, the key to domestic bliss is a constant undercurrent of tense anger lingering from world-security-threatening fights of several years’ past. He’ll text Martha Stewart about it later.

Steve leaves the same way he arrived, far too casually for Tony to comprehend. They haven’t touched each other once since he’s arrived - they both know that’s a one-way ticket to Bad Decision Land - but, despite this, Steve gives Tony’s shoulder a quick squeeze on his way out. Tony thinks it’s supposed to be some kind of reassurance. _This is just an argument. It will never be more than an argument. I will always love you._

Steve doesn’t say any of that, though. Instead, he says “get some sleep, Tony” and disappears into the darkness outside, leaving Tony’s shoulder warm from his touch.

 

* * *

 

He shows up on Tony’s doorstep again the next morning, armed with muffins instead of a flimsy alibi.

“They’re blueberry,” Steve declares, holding up a plastic baggie. His cheeks are stained a light pink from the chilly morning air. The muffins are a little smooshed, but Tony’s stomach still grumbles in interest. Steve’s also holding an untouched cup of iced coffee, and Tony ran out of the mix for cold brew last night, so the mere sight makes his mouth water.

This is a bad idea. Letting Steve in, right now, for the second day in a row, is a really bad idea. _Solitude_ , argues the intelligent part of his brain. _Steve_ , crows his lizard hindbrain. Tony hates this, hates how even if Steve isn’t saying anything, even if he’s just sitting in the back of the workshop talking to DUM-E in a low voice and humming under his breath, his mere presence makes something pleasant unspool in the pit of Tony’s stomach. Or maybe Tony just wishes he hated it. Again, it’s hard to distinguish between the two these days.

It’s no use trying to keep him out, Tony supposes. He learned a long time ago that he could plaster his whole body with signage declaring ‘WARNING: HAZARDOUS MATERIAL’, and it would only further tempt Steve Rogers’ self-immolating tendencies.

“Whatever,” Tony says finally, and he doesn’t invite Steve inside, but he leaves the door open as he turns around, which is basically the same thing.


	2. in my head, i do everything right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There’s something about a man in a kilt,” Pepper muses, eyes raking appreciatively over the screen, “Even when that man is Mel Gibson.”
> 
> “Yeah, I kind of get that,” Tony tilts his head, nodding slightly.
> 
> “You guys are objectifying a national icon,” Rhodey protests. _Wouldn’t be the first time this week,_ Tony thinks, and takes a meaningful bite of his sugar cookie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @ the like... three people who are invested in this story... i'd die 4 u

Steve doesn’t bring up Riri’s armor again and an easy kind of back and forth settles between them, an approximation of the relationship they had before. It’s a little more cautious, this time around, occasionally teasing the line between comfort and light wariness, but it feels like a good basis for the new normal. Steve stops by Tony’s place every day, sometimes for the whole afternoon and sometimes for a few hours in the morning or the evening. Tony doesn’t ask what he does when he’s not there - apparently it’s not Captain America stuff, seeing as that’s Sam’s thing now - and Steve doesn’t volunteer any information on the subject.

He spends his time in Tony’s workshop either reading or sketching. He doesn’t complain about the music but he does make Tony take breaks every few hours. One afternoon he sees Tony rub a little at the soreness in his neck, and he shows up the next morning with a manual entitled 'Yoga For Beginners' tucked under his arm.

“Absolutely not,” Tony snorts into the rim of his mug, downing half his coffee in one gulp.

Two hours later he’s lying on the floor of the workshop with his feet in the air, thinking there’s no way this is helping more than it’s hurting. He communicates this to Steve, who’s doing the same pose next to him, and Steve turns his head to frown disapprovingly at Tony.

“It’s good for your back,” Steve says, lowering his legs to the floor gracefully, abdominal muscles fluttering. Show off, Tony thinks, feeling old and bitter.

Much to Tony’s immediate horror, Steve crawls over to where he’s laying and attempts to correct his position, placing his enormous hands on Tony’s thighs in a gesture that Tony’s brain is having a really hard time identifying as platonic.

“What are you doing?” Tony asks, trying valiantly to ignore the warmth blooming across the skin beneath Steve’s palms.

Steve doesn’t answer, just straightens Tony’s legs and grips him tightly around the thighs, pulling them up so Tony’s butt lifts the slightest bit off the floor.

Tony, unfortunately, has dulled arousal curling in the pit of his stomach, but he also feels the ache in his lower back stretch and smooth over, replaced by a more pleasant kind of soreness.

“Oh,” Tony says, peering up at Steve curiously.

“Yoga,” Steve answers sagely, and lowers Tony to the floor, squeezing playfully at his ankle as he pulls away.

The thing about Steve’s hands is that Tony used to be obsessed with them and he knows he could very easily get obsessed with them again. They’re huge and soft and Steve used to be so tactile: scraping his blunt nails through Tony’s hair and down his back, rubbing the tension out of Tony’s shoulders, tangling their fingers together under the cover of conference tables.

Tony realizes that - discounting the brief hand on his shoulder several nights ago - this is the first time Steve has initiated prolonged physical contact since... Tony doesn’t know, since before Siberia.

Steve actually looks a little harried about it now, like he didn’t quite mean to put this tension back between them. “I’m gonna go make lunch,” he says, rising from the floor and dusting off his sweatpants. Tony innocuously checks out his backside as he leaves, which he thinks might be more healing than the yoga.

When Riri arrives an hour and a half later, she bounds into the workshop with a strange frown on her face, the same one she adopts when a piece of her tech is being particularly contrary.

“What?” Tony asks, giving her a look over the top of his glasses.

“Did you do something to Steve? He’s all pink and he made, like, a hundred sugar cookies. He attacked me with them when I came in.” Riri holds up a heart-shaped cookie for evidence.

“I don’t know,” Tony ducks his head to hide his smile and shrugs. “Maybe he read something upsetting about anti-vaxxers. Come look at my sentient bird feeder.”

 

* * *

 

About three weeks into his “solitude”, Tony caves and invites Pepper and Rhodey up to the farm. On the morning of their arrival, Tony waits on the porch with a pitcher of iced coffee, sprawled across the deck so he can enjoy the feel of the sun against face and neck.

Rhodey drives himself and Pepper up in a rental car. It’s a red Prius, and Tony can’t stop smiling as it pulls into the driveway. He pushes his sunglasses up on his head and jogs down the steps of the porch to meet them.

Rhodey ducks out of the car, takes one look around, and matches Tony grin for grin. “I thought you’d be in a tractor,” he says, and Tony tackles him into a hug, holding tight.

“I’m sorry, Honeybear, I know that’s been a long time fantasy of yours,” Tony pulls back to wink at him, pairing the gesture with a quick pinch Rhodey’s butt. Rhodey looks very affronted by this even though decades of friendship should have taught him to expect it.

He kisses both of Rhodey’s smiling cheeks and pulls back to focus his attention on Pepper, who is drumming her manicured fingers on the roof of the car impatiently.

“Are you wearing jeans?” he asks, thoroughly delighted. Pepper sleeps in a silk nightgown, the last time he saw her in jeans and a t-shirt was... god, Tony can’t even remember.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Pepper responds primly. She gives him a big hug, too, allowing him to lift her just the slightest bit off the ground before she slaps his shoulder in reprimand.

Neither of them mentions the messiness of the house, but Tony is certain Pepper will have smuggled the business cards of three cleaning companies in the drawer of his nightstand by tomorrow morning. They head down to the workshop so he can show them what he’s been working on, and he lets Pepper package up a couple of the designs to take back to SI. Rhodey looks over the work with his usual meticulous, practical eye, doling out helpful criticism and praise in equal measure.

Then Pepper says they’re all workaholics with a Problem, so they go upstairs and bicker about how to spend the afternoon and what to eat for dinner. The only thing on cable is Braveheart, and even though Friday can stream anything Tony wants, Rhodey looks offended at the suggestion that they’d watch anything else when Braveheart is readily available.

They pile onto one end of the couch, Tony’s head tucked against Rhodey’s shoulder, Pepper’s head tucked against his. They down some of Steve’s heart-shaped sugar cookies and Tony semi-successfully evades any questioning about where they came from.

“There’s something about a man in a kilt,” Pepper muses, eyes raking appreciatively over the screen, “Even when that man is Mel Gibson.”

“Yeah, I kind of get that,” Tony tilts his head, nodding slightly.

“You guys are objectifying a national icon,” Rhodey protests. _Wouldn’t be the first time this week_ , Tony thinks, and takes a meaningful bite of his sugar cookie.

Rhodey cries a little at William Wallace’s final call for “Freedom” like he always does. Pepper hides her amused smile in Tony’s collar and Tony pats his arm consolingly. As the credits roll, they ponder collectively about why Mel Gibson decided he was going to direct, produce, and star in a movie about a Scottish national icon. Rhodey laments about the lack of a Braveheart remake, wishing he could continue to be an avid William Wallace fanboy without the unfortunate relation to Mel Gibson. Pepper is ambivalent, though she’d request they put forth greater effort into researching female contributions to the independence effort, because surely they did more than hypnotize men with their magical vaginas. Tony offers to bankroll the whole endeavor and they both nearly succeed at smothering him with pillows.

Riri comes over for dinner, not because she has any interest in hanging out with Tony’s friends but rather because she can’t pass up the opportunity to meet Pepper Potts, CEO of Stark Industries and the first woman to be featured on no less than seven covers for Forbes magazine.

She shows up on Tony’s doorstep in a blouse and a pencil skirt, both entirely void of the usual black smears of engine grease and oil.

“What are you wearing?” Tony snickers. She supplies a wrench from somewhere on her person and threatens to hit him with it.

Riri asks Pepper a million questions about the company, about her time at Harvard, and about what the Iron Man legacy means to her. Pepper seems humbled and a little shy at the notion she’s got such a big fan, which is ridiculous because Pepper is so amazing, why should she be surprised when the rest of the world takes notice?

Both she and Rhodey are impressed with Riri’s encyclopedic knowledge of everything. She even prattles off mindless statistics about armor that was never released for public consumption, somehow managing to get in both the year it was crafted and the error that halted production on the same breath. At one point, Rhodey looks around her head to raise an eyebrow at Tony, mouthing “for real?”. And all Tony can do is nod, ‘cause yeah, for real.

It’s 9:30 by the time Riri has moved onto needling Rhodey (albeit in a slightly less aggressive fashion). Tony makes her eat a little food, ‘cause she supposed to be there for dinner, and keeps a careful eye on the clock.

“What time’s your mom expecting you?” he asks innocently, exchanging a meaningful look with Pepper.

Riri swallows her bite of steak and frowns a little. “No later than 10.”

“Right. Time for us to drive you home, then.”

“The bus stop is, like, five—“

“Nuh-uh, Williams. People die on the bus.”

“Honestly, kid,” Rhodey starts, a teasing smile lifting the corner of his mouth, “Tony has never taken the bus in his life. Everything he knows about public transit has been lifted from pop culture.”

“Wrong!” Tony argues, “I’ve taken the Subway.” And it was true, he had. Six times exactly, three of them while on not-dates with Steve.

“One metro card does not an expert make, Tony,” Pepper chimes in mildly, tearing off a piece of a roll and popping it in her mouth.

“You guys know I’m scientifically classified as a genius, right?”

“Big whoop,” Riri says, standing up and dusting crumbs off her skirt. “So am I.”

Rhodey and Pepper laugh at that, and Riri seems so pleased that she keeps complaining to a bare minimum as Tony loads her and his traitorous friends into Rhodey’s rental Prius.

When Tony deposits Riri on her mom’s front doorstep, Ms. Williams comes out to talk to him. Tony briefly considers making a break for it, but he doesn’t think the people driving his getaway car would be very amiable towards the idea. Still, as Ms. Williams approaches with tired eyes and an entreating smile, everything in Tony screams run, run, run, run.

“You must be Mr. Stark.” Ms. Williams is tiny - not tinier than Riri, but tinier than Pepper when she’s not wearing heels, tinier than Peter. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Tony, desperately trying to remember how to be charming, offers his hand and plasters a smile on his face. “Pleasure’s all mine, ma’am. Sorry this introduction didn’t come earlier, the first time we met Riri took me a little by surprise.”

“It’s all right,” Ms. Williams gives Tony a faint smile. She carries herself with the kind of elegance that’s learned from years of hiding grief. Tony recognizes it so well because it’s the kind of armor Steve wears. “Riri’s a good kid. I mostly let her have free reign because I trust her judgment.”

“Smartest kid I’ve ever met,” Tony says honestly, and that’s including himself.

“Yes, she is,” Ms. Williams agrees breezily, rubbing at the threadbare cardigan wrapped around her slight frame, “too smart, though. I just worry that she isn’t... well, that she’ll lose...” Ms. Williams gets this faraway look in her eye, voice taking on this airy, detached quality. Tony thinks she might be remembering something, something that used to be pleasant but now carries an edge of pain. She looks back at Tony, that same ill-defined smile curving her lips. “I just want her to remember that she has a home here. That she has people, who love and depend on her for more than just her work.”

Tony blinks several times, suddenly feeling at a loss for words. His eyes flick to where Riri is lingering on the porch, hands on her hips and eyes narrowed in the direction of Tony and her mother. She has so much to lose, Tony thinks, and she doesn’t even realize it.

He exchanges cordial goodbyes with Ms. Williams and waves at Riri, who sticks her tongue out at him in response. When he gets back to the car, he sits in the back seat with Pepper and holds her hand the whole way home.

 

* * *

 

The morning that Rhodey and Pepper leave, Pepper catches him by the wrist and meets his eyes. Rhodey takes this as a cue to go outside and start loading their stuff into the Prius.

Tony knows what’s coming even before she starts sliding off her engagement ring, lips flattened into a thin, practical line.

“I love you,” she tells him, her voice certain, “I will always love you.”

“I know,” Tony says gently. And, fuck, is he crying a little? His eyes feel suspiciously wet as Pepper presses the ring intohis outstretched palm.

“I’m sorry that I—“ she cuts herself off, looking down and then out the window, blinking away her own tears. Tony holds her hand, tangling their fingers together. She looks back towards him, a faint, shaking smile on her lips. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t help you, couldn’t be what you need.”

“No,” Tony interjects, shaking his head. “Fuck no. Fuck that. You’re— you’re perfect, you’re exactly what I needed. What I still need. I’m just... I’m different, Pep, and I don't know how to explain it.”

He’s not the same as before the snap, that comfort with permanence and domesticity has been replaced with the crushing anxiety that his mere presence is enough to create a catastrophic disturbance in the course of the universe. Most nights he wakes up choking on his own breath, and during the others he doesn’t sleep at all. Pepper can’t be his caretaker and his partner - they moved past that sort of dynamic years ago, and it’d be a disservice to them both to go back.

Rhodey doesn’t say anything when Pepper comes out with puffy eyes and squeezes Tony just a bit too hard during her hug goodbye. He gives Tony eyes though - We Will Talk About It Later Eyes - so Tony knows an interrogation is forthcoming.

“Visit again,” Tony tells them both, arms hanging loosely through the window of the Prius.

Rhodey flicks his ear. “Of course we will. Better have a tractor next time.”

Pepper leans over to squeeze his hand before retreating to the passenger seat, eyes wide and a little sad.

“Love you,” Tony says honestly.

“Love you, too.”

His chest clenches around emptiness as they drive away, and he stares at the engagement ring in his hand wondering how his life got like this - got to the point where the kind of love and stability Pepper needed was no longer something he felt capable of giving. He’d worked his ass off just to crest that hill the first time, and a motherfucking titan and all the cosmic forces of the universe had to conspire to take it away from him. He supposes this is what it feels like, when new wounds start to heal - itchy and uncomfortable, a distant ache for normalcy that could still be months or years away.

 

* * *

 

The house feels uncomfortably empty the day Pepper and Rhodey leave, but the respective presences of Riri and Steve nosing about largely abate the feeling. It's shockingly easy how he and Steve have fallen back into a friendship, back into a routine. They each set these arbitrary boundaries that Tony flirts with the limits of every once in a while, even as Steve respects them to the letter. Tony figures that's probably a good idea, at least until they hammer out the finer details of whatever the hell kind of tension still exists between them.

Things start to get a little clearer when, during one dewy Tuesday morning, Tony wakes up to find Sam Wilson bleeding on his front porch.

He’s got an arm slung around Steve, who seems to be all but carrying him, fingers red from the blood seeping through Sam’s shirt.

“We were out for a walk,” Steve explains, brow creased with worry and anger, “he popped his stitches. He didn’t tell me he even had stitches.”

Along with Sam’s side wound, he’s got a black eye and considerable bruising across his collar. Tony wonders if being both a brilliant tactician and an enormous idiot is a mandatory requirement for the position of Captain America.

“Your place was closer, I’m sorry,” Steve looks pained, glancing down at Sam with worried eyes. "Do you have a First Aid kid?"

“Yeah, Jesus, come in,” Tony says, opening the door and guiding them inside.

Steve deposits Sam on the couch in the living room and Tony steps away to grab the kit and a bottle of water for Sam, who's looking a little faint. When he returns, Steve’s hiked up Sam’s shirt and begun examining the damage underneath, the damage Sam had apparently been concealing.

“Christ, Sam. What are you, some kind of glutton for punishment?”

“No,” Sam grunts, but he’s got a vaguely guilty expression on his face.

“Should I call Bucky?” Steve asks, wringing his hands nervously. “This looks bad, I feel like I should call Bucky.”

“Don’t call Bucky,” Sam groans, but he opens his eyes wide, staring at Steve hard.

“Why not?” Steve presses, slight panic written all over his features.

“You call Bucky, he starts stabbing people. No stabbing. Not this weekend. I’m on vacation.”

“If I don’t call Bucky, he’ll stab _me_.”

Sam flops his hand around dismissively. “You’ve been stabbed before. You’ll survive.”

“Nice to know you’ve always got my back, Wilson.”

“S’The Captain America guarantee,” Sam says with a faint smile and a wink.

Tony tries not to roll his eyes at this whole exchange, dutifully dabbing at the wounds along Sam’s side and down his stomach. This feels like a family matter, and he can’t deny that Sam, Steve, Romanoff, and Barnes are… some kind of messed up family. Steve had always loved each of them, but in the years after his and Tony’s fallout those bonds had cemented into something permanent, something like what Tony had with Pepper and Rhodey.

There had been a time he thought Sam and Steve were— that they had started—... well. Tony's pretty embarrassed about it now.

Sam has a cool expression on his features as he appraises Tony, staring at him with distrusting, narrowed eyes and a mouth pressed into a flat line. “Thanks, Stark,” he says carefully, though he looks loathe to concede the words.

“It’s no problem, Wilson,” Tony smiles, handing the first aid kid to Steve so he can mess around with the stitches. “I’m really just trying to uphold a legacy, here, see, when I was twelve there was this pigeon with a broken wing and a wonky eye the front stoop of the apartment building and I, very graciously I might add, —“

“This motherfucker,” Sam cuts in, a small, sardonic smile pushing at the corner of his mouth.“Just let me bleed out, Steve.”

Tony glances at Steve, who doesn’t look up from where he’s sewing Sam back together, but is sporting a small, pleased smile and a pink flush.

Sam spends the night on the couch because, even as he insists he can manage it, Steve doesn’t want him going up the stairs. After a few painkillers and a hot meal he’s out cold, snoring pretty loudly as Tony and Steve make their way through the dishes.

“So him and Barnes…” Tony starts, glancing over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Steve’s voice takes on a soft, affectionate note. He looks back at Sam with so much love in his eyes that it makes Tony’s chest ache. “Think it kinda snuck up on the both of them. Bucky doesn’t quite approve of the Captain America thing. Keeps trying to follow him on ops, take out the threats before Sam has a chance.”

Tony snorts a little. _Bucky Barnes. The Winter Soldier. Oversized, Murderous Puppy._

“What’s your role in all of this?” Tony asks, glancing at Steve out of the corner of his eye.

“Don’t have one,” Steve shakes his head, placing one of Tony’s dishes on the drying rack. He pauses and looks up at Tony with a charmingly crooked smile. “I’ve just been here. With you.”

Tony’s heart does something funny in his chest.

“Okay,” he says, but the next time Steve reaches for a plate Tony catches him around the wrist and squeezes, channeling gratitude through the press of his fingers against Steve’s pulse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> catch me on tumblr @ quidhitch


	3. some quiet place between us in those summer nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So are you actually… growing anything?”
> 
> Tony initially resists the temptation to roll his eyes at the self righteous note in Steve’s voice, then thinks ‘what the fuck? Why am I pretending it isn’t obnoxious?’, and rolls his eyes twice for good measure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello... once again big love to anyone who's still with me i read every comment and they bring me so much happiness <3
> 
> on an unrelated note... i will be participating in the marvel trumps hate fan auction! ppl are still getting everything together so i don't have a page to link yet, but my minimum amount is $5 and i'll write u ~10k of Happy Things! also ur 5 dollars would be going to a rlly good cause that u get to pick :) i strongly encourage everyone to bid or spread the info around to others who might be interested in bidding! it's gonna be really good and fun <3

“So are you actually… growing anything?”

Tony initially resists the temptation to roll his eyes at the self righteous note in Steve’s voice, then thinks ‘what the fuck? Why am I pretending it isn’t obnoxious?’, and rolls his eyes twice for good measure.

“I’m just asking,” Steve says primly, fingers moving deftly along the (somewhat normal-looking) scarf he’s knitting, “you own a farm, it’s a reasonable question.”

“I’m growing innovation,” Tony insists, waving his wrench around at the workshop, “technology. World-changing technology. I don’t have time to be planting potatoes.”

“You watched cartoons for four hours yesterday.”

“And you were in the room for three of those hours, so what’s your point?”

Steve frowns at his yarn, eyes flicking briefly up to meet Tony’s. “Why did you buy a farm in the first place?”

“For solitude,” Tony says sharply, then realizes this is possibly a hypocritical statement considering the number of people who have filtered in and out of his house in the past week and a half.

“You should grow tomatoes,” Riri says loudly. She’s fiddling with her armor in the corner of the workshop and occasionally making loud clanging noises that Tony is certain are meant to entice him into helping her. “Or get bees and have a honey farm. That would be cool.”

“That _would_ be cool!” Steve says, an endearing little smile tipping up his mouth. “Bees are cute.”

“We’re not getting bees,” Tony says incredulously, trying to put on his best approximation of a ‘This Conversation Is Over’ voice, “Steve go back to knitting, Riri go back to trying to give me an anxiety attack.”

Steve sighs and does indeed go back to knitting, but this is way too easy a concession and Tony should really know better at this point.

The next morning Steve turns up on his doorstep in worn out jeans, yet another flannel, and gardening gloves. In his arms is a huge cardboard box with flowers, seeds, and shovels. He’s got a smile that’s equal parts optimism and stubbornness.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Steve tells him, “I’ll plant the stuff and take care of it.”

Tony folds his arms across his chest and leans against the doorway, making absolutely no move to relieve some of the burden on Steve’s arms. “Why can’t you do this on your land?”

Steve winces. “Well. Mr. MacDonald’s land is mostly his own - I’m just kind of renting the room there. I feed his chickens and take care of the horses sometimes, but he doesn’t really have space for me to plant anything.”

Tony chews on his lip, silent for a couple moments. “You are so....”, he trails off and stares at Steve, who’s grinning like a toddler because he already knows he’s won.

And that’s how Tony ends up in the outdoors for the morning, laying on his back in the dirt and looking over schematics while Steve digs careful holes in the ground next to him. He watches Steve more than he cares to admit, sipping at iced coffee and sparing glances at him over the tops of his sunglasses. There’s something so right about Steve on a farm - doing gentle, careful work with his hands, humming under his breath, wiping sweat from his brow as his skin turns golden under the sun. The sight is…. admittedly kind of sweet, especially when one of Tony’s blueprints goes drifting away on a particularly strong breeze and Steve chases after it with all his supersoldier-endowed strength.

Tony tries not to care or even know what Steve’s planting, but he can’t help the glimpses he catches of the labels on the boxes and packets as Steve puts them in the ground. He’s got an interesting array - simple stuff like tomatoes, peppers, and squash paired with more finicky stuff like radishes and carrots. He fills a planter with the seeds for several different herbs, and Tony has no doubt that it will end up on his windowsill.

The flowers are pretty. Tony tries not to think about them too much - Steve pulling at the blooms with gentle fingers, tucking them in Tony’s hair, leaving bunches of them on Tony’s bedside. It’s exactly the sort of thing he’d have done when they were together, and sometimes, when they’re sharing space like this, it’s hard to remember that they’re not.

“No livestock, Steve,” Tony says sternly. Steve is washing his hands under the water pump attached to the back of the house. Tony’s eyes glimmer with interest as he gets his jeans and his stomach wet in the process. “I mean it. No bees either.”

“No livestock, no bees. Got it,” Steve says with a small, muted smile. He wipes his hands on the dry parts of his shirt and trudges over to where Tony’s reclined, flopping down on the grass next to him.

They fall into amicable silence. Tony rolls onto his stomach and pretends to read something in his notebook, but he’s actually listening to the sound of Steve breathing and shifting in the grass next to him. There are these moments, when they’re together, where Tony is so aware of his every movement like he’s anticipating something on pure instinct. He doesn’t know what, though, and he’s almost afraid to speculate.

“Thanks, Tony.”

Tony turns to look at him. His eyes are closed, hairline a little damp from sweat, cheeks ruddy with the day’s effort. There’s dirt smudged on his forehead and his neck. He’s beautiful in a way that makes Tony physically ache, and Tony just _loves him_.

“For what?” Tony asks, resting his cheek on his arms.

“For letting me plant the garden,” Steve’s eyes flutter open and he turns his head to look at Tony, smiling.

Tony thinks he actually means ‘for giving me another home.’

 

* * *

 

One unassuming afternoon in the workshop, Riri asks if they’re married. Tony covers up his initial agitation with a snort, flicking his glasses over his eyes to hide any unfortunate blushing that may arise in the duration of this conversation.

“Why would you ask that?” he starts, tone carefully disinterested. “You know we had a very nasty, very public falling out less than ten years ago, right?” Generally, the easiest way to get under Riri’s skin is to patronize her. It either makes her so angry she cuts off all conversation completely or it fills her with a controlled rage that produces hyper-eloquent tirades. It’s an all or nothing kind of gamble.

“People who don’t love each other don’t fight like that,” Riri says, glaring at him. She gives up after a couple seconds, turning back to her work with a small shrug. “That’s what my mom says, at least. I don’t really know anything about love.”

 _Keep it that way as long as you can, kid_ , Tony thinks, but doesn’t say because he abruptly remembers he’s trying to be a better influence this time around. “Of course I love Steve,” he says dismissively, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his eyes. “He’s — he was a really good friend and a close teammate. That doesn’t mean we’re going to get married.”

“Well, no, it doesn’t,” Riri begins, placing a hand on her hip and stepping back from the work table, “but you might as well, because you already act like you are.”

“No we don’t,” Tony argues, but he realizes with encroaching horror that yes — yes. They do. Despite his initial distaste, Tony does help Steve with the garden. They cook together, at least one meal a day if not two. He accompanies Steve on walks where they take Mr. MacDonald’s seven (SEVEN!) dogs through various trails in woodsy areas. They watch TV together, they read the paper together, they bicker over chores together.

But that’s all platonic, right? Because they’re not sleeping together. And Tony can say, with 75% certainty, that they will never sleep together again. It’s more confidence than he had in the first prototype of the Iron Man armor, and that turned out all right for him. Kind of.

“I mean, you obviously do,” Riri rolls her eyes, which is, unfortunately, a habit Tony thinks she might have picked up from him. “But whatever. Tell me what I’m doing wrong here, why won’t this turn on?”

They work for seven hours that day, and then seven hours the next. Tony calls Ms. Williams three times to tell her Riri’s fine, she’s just working, tells her to say the word and he’ll send her home. Tony can hear the hesitation in her voice - knows she’s conflicted because if she asks Riri to come, Riri will undoubtedly throw a fit over it and lock herself up in her room, so they won’t spend any time together anyways. The effect will be much the same if Tony forcibly sends her back, except with the added bonus of sulking.

“I’m sorry,” Tony says, watching her assemble and disassemble her armor in the corner of the lab, “she’s just so curious about everything. And she knows I’ll keep working even when she leaves, I think she doesn’t want to miss out.”

“It’s alright,” Ms. Williams replies in that airy, tired way of hers. “Just force her out before ten.”

“Will do, ma’am.”

Tony hangs up the phone and looks at Steve, who is already looking at him. He’s sitting on a chair against the back of the workshop, his feet propped up on a table with a poetry book splayed open on his thighs. Steve quirks an eyebrow and, with a sudden, startling clarity, Tony realizes he knows what Steve’s thinking. It’s been a long time since they had that kind of closeness, one that translated to nonverbal communication. Tony smiles a little, and Steve smiles back.

Steve closes his book. “We’re going out,” he announces.

Riri doesn’t even look at him, but he’s completely undeterred. He sets the book on the table and moves to fiddle around with the nearest computer. In an instant, Tony knows what he’s doing. He’d given Steve the override codes at some point during their battle with Thanos - he hadn’t thought to change them until now. Tony folds his arms and leans up against the work table, mouth quirking into a wider smile as Steve punches a few keys and everything in the workshop grinds to a screeching halt.

The lights go down, and Riri shouts ‘hey!’ in the darkness. Tony hears what he assumes are the sounds of her scrambling for her phone. A beam of white light emanates from her corner of the room, revealing a scowling Riri and a grinning Steve.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she demands.

“We’re going out,” he says easily.

Riri looks to Tony for support, but Tony merely shakes his head, tucking his hands into his pockets. He knows better than to interfere when Steve has his mind made up, and judging by the glint in his eye, Steve’s mind was made up the second he realized it was Ms. Williams on the phone.

Riri complains loudly and pouts, but Steve is obstinate, standing in front of her with a small, patient smile and enormous arms folded over his chest. He evades her questioning about what ‘out’ means, evades everything she says entirely, really, until she pushes up off the floor, takes the welding goggles off her face, and concedes to follow him upstairs. Tony trails behind both of them, amusement blooming in his chest.

Steve doesn’t ask if he can borrow the truck, just glances back at Tony as he grabs the keys off the counter. Tony nods slightly and places his hands on Riri’s shoulders, urging her forward as she starts to drag her feet. They all load into the truck and Steve takes the fastest route to Ms. Williams house. Riri slouches against her seat as Steve pulls up into the driveway, like she’s trying to disappear into the ratty seats.

“You could’ve just told me if you wanted to take me home,” she grumbles.

“Keep your seatbelt on,” is all Steve says in response.

Steve steps out of the truck and bounds up the front steps to the house. He looks like he’s much better at talking to Ms. Williams than Tony, which makes sense because Steve is exactly the kind of person single moms love. Ms. Williams is smiling and blushing, the most energetic Tony has ever seen her as she peeks around Steve’s frame and looks to where Tony and Riri are squished together in the front seat.

She holds up a finger and disappears inside of the house. A few moments later the garage door pulls up, and the small, affordable car enclosed roars to life. Steve jogs back to the truck, sliding easily into the driver’s seat.

“Where are we going?” Riri asks, tone significantly less hostile.

“The beach,” Steve says, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

 

* * *

 

When Tony was eight, Howard and Maria were supposed to take him to Coney Island.

He’d spent the whole day on the floor of his dad’s study outfitted in cargo shorts and a t-shirt, reading various books on quantum theory while he waited for Howard to finish up on the phone. He read JJ Thompson, George Gamow, and Louisa Gilder. He moved on to astrophysics just at the clock hit seven, and Howard moved into the kitchen to have a very loud, very emotional dispute with Maria. Tony had stayed frozen under Howard’s desk with his legs pulled up to his chest and a flashlight propped on his shoulder, trying his best to focus on the words of Dr. Beth Brown rather than the muffled sounds of his mother crying. Needless to say Tony never made it to the beach that day, but the memory continues to supplement his likely unresolvable abandonment issues, so no one can say Howard never gave him anything. Tony would never admit it, but every time he thinks about it it still stings a little. It’s undoubtedly one of his worst memories.

He’s thinking today is shaping up to be one of his best.

For a large part of the remaining car ride Riri remains curled petulantly against the door, but as they cross into greener territory, sparsely populated places where the world seems a bit new, she begins to unfurl. By the time Steve’s pulling into the parking lot, she’s peering curiously out the window, paying close attention to the crash of the ocean like she’s building a mechanical model of it in her mind.

She doesn’t wait for Steve or Tony. Steve pulls the key from the ignition and Riri's off like a bullet - throwing open the door and jogging into the sand, stopping at tide pools, collecting shells, and generally ignoring the both of them. She does, however, allow her mother to trail just a few feet behind her, engages her in conversation, shoots fond smiles at her when she thinks none of them are looking.

Tony, who is sitting on a rock and trying hard not to stare at Steve’s profile, shakes his head in disbelief. “How do you do that? You just know what people need. For me, for the team, for everyone.”

Steve shrugs a little and supplies a sugar cookie from somewhere on his person, wordlessly handing it over. _Jesus,_ Tony thinks. _I’ve found him. The perfect man._

“I’m serious,” Tony insists, biting into his cookie and smiling at the horizon. He pauses, glancing at Steve and considering his profile - hair whipping in the wind, cheeks pink from the cold, mouth resting in an easy, sturdy smile. He looks strong and serious and contemplative like he always does, but Tony knows if Steve turned his head, he’d find a sea of softness in his eyes. “That was one of the things I missed the most about you. You were always doing stuff like this for me - when you were around to, anyways. You were always paying attention.”

“I liked you,” Steve shrugs again and presses his shoulder lightly against Tony’s. “You were - you...  _are_  challenging. Frustrating. Incredible, too. I didn’t have to try to pay attention. Sometimes I’d try not to pay attention, and I’d still end up looking at you.”

Tony looks down at his knees, fingers curling in the sand. Steve used to do that kind of thing all the time - say stuff, unassuming, beautiful stuff that never failed to take Tony’s breath away. Tony can’t think of what to offer in response, but he knows he’ll be wondering what it all means into the early hours of tomorrow morning.

They’re still navigating physical contact. Steve mostly lets Tony decide if he wants it or not, and there are days when Tony very adamantly doesn’t. Steve goes through spells like that, too, not that he’d ever admit it, but Tony gets within a certain distance of him, sees a slight flinch in his expression, and knows to back off.

And then there are days when Tony can’t stop touching him. All platonic, of course, hands on shoulders and elbows against sides and knees bumping together, but it feels like a meaningful reassurance all the same. Sometimes Tony just needs to know, that he’s there and Steve’s there and they’re not fighting anymore and it’s going to be okay.

Tony pauses, considers, then tentatively scoots a little closer to Steve, resting his head on the tight line of Steve’s shoulders. Steve’s still for several moments, but then he returns the pressure, leaning slowly into the touch.

“I missed you, too,” he says, and turns to kiss the top of Tony’s head.

 

* * *

 

More children start showing up.

First it’s America - yeah, her name is actually America, Tony asked four times before she mildly threatened to punch him through a window and he decided to believe her. Tony thinks Steve adopted her. Or maybe she adopted Steve. The details of the arrangement are unclear, and when Tony asked about it, Steve supplied a very weird origin story.

“She fell through the roof of the barn,” he shrugs, taking a bite of a snap pea.

“She… what? Like an alien? How do you know she’s not hostile? How do you know she’s not Loki?”

Steve rolls his eyes like Tony’s being dramatic, like somehow it’s completely normal that a teenage girl named America fell through the roof of his barn and then decided to stick around for several days ‘cause she thought Steve was funny. “She’s too cool to be Loki. And if she wanted to kill me, I think she’d have done it by now because she’s certainly capable. Sometimes when she punches the air, these glowing portals shaped like stars appear, and when she hops through them I can’t find her for days.”

The conversation had been more confusing than helpful. Ultimately Tony decided to give up and begrudgingly permit the presence of America in his home. She’s secretive, pretty mean, and definitely has some sort of deep rooted mommy issues, but whatever. She’s Steve’s, and at some point in the last few months, that has come to mean that she’s Tony’s as well.

Steve and America spar sometimes, in the front yard. They’re only evenly matched when Steve sets a no-portal rule, though America is unafraid to break it if she starts losing. Tony watches and pretends to referee from the front porch, marveling at the fact that Steve never looks so profoundly happy as when he’s getting his ass handed to him by someone he cares about.

Tony sips idly at his iced coffee and watches the muscles in Steve's arms and back pull tight, his criminally small t-shirt leaving very little to the imagination.

“You’re getting better,” Steve says, sprawled out across the grass, chest heaving with exertion. 

America frowns down at Steve for several long, dragging seconds, before conceding a gruff “thanks” and offering him a hand. She pulls his entire super soldier body up with one hand and Tony is…. begrudgingly impressed. He chances a look at Riri, who is sitting next to him and completely enthralled by the whole spectacle. Tony can practically see the gears turning in her head, already cataloging the adjustments she’ll make to her armor, ways to level the playing field between her own human body and the enhanced individuals currently engaging in round two.

She looks at him with wide, imploring brown eyes. Unlike with Peter, he does not fall for it.

“Steve’s training America!”

“Steve’s not training anybody,” Tony informs primly, tipping his coffee in their direction as America socks Steve in the jaw. “This is just how he makes friends.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it. You don’t even have to show me how to use the suit, I’ll figure that out on my own, just help me finish it! I’m so close, Tony.”

Tony makes a noise of frustration in the back of his throat. “What do you even need it for?” Riri’s eyes get all hopeful and she starts to open her mouth and suddenly Tony is certain that the answer will be far more trouble than it’s worth, “—you know what, never mind, it doesn’t matter, because I’m not helping you make it. You know why they kicked you out of MIT? ‘Cause you can’t follow my one rule. No discussing Iron Woman.”

“First of all, they didn’t kick me out of MIT, I left because they were lame. Second of all, I wouldn’t be named Iron Woman. That’s the stupidest name I’ve ever heard in my life.”

Tony makes a slightly offended noise, because, hey, that's a variant on what was very recently his name, like, six months ago.

Silence falls between them. For a few minutes, the only sounds filling the air are ones of Steve grunting in pain and America throwing him places. Tony thinks it should probably feel strange, that this is so peaceful and normal.

When Riri finally speaks again, something in her voice makes Tony turn his head to look at her.

“What if I can help?” she asks, “what if something’s going terribly, terribly wrong and I’m the only one who can help?”

It sounds so much like what Peter told him the first time they’d met. W _hen you can do the things that I can, but you don't... and then the bad things happen... they happen because of you._ It’s wrong. It’s stupid. It’s a misguided way of thinking that gets good people hurt more often than it gets bad people what they deserve. ...And yet, Tony thinks that, even given the odds, even given his years of horrible experience… maybe, just maybe, it’s not a choice for some people. Steve was right that first week they both met her - Riri’s not going to give up on this, and if she can’t get Tony’s help, she’s likely to resort to doing it on her own. Maybe it’s coded into her DNA, her fucking destiny, and to try to push back against it is to try to defy the natural order of the universe.

Tony’s done that once in this lifetime, and he wasn’t terribly pleased with the results.

He’s quiet for a moment, looking away from Riri and towards the scene in front of him. Steve kicks America’s legs out from under her and the second America gets back on her feet, she throws him into the side of the house. Tony watches and contemplates, fingers drumming incoherent patterns against the side of his thigh.

“I’ll think about it,” he says finally, and Riri smiles wider than she ever has before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> catch me on tumblr @ quidhitch!


	4. just two hearts in one home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re not making pancakes?” Tony asks, propping his elbows on the kitchen table and staring blankly at Steve
> 
> Steve shoots him a hurried glance over his shoulder. “Why would I be making pancakes?”
> 
> “The last four Thursdays you’ve made pancakes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh it is the end!! wow.... thank you for those kind and patient few who have stuck with this story <3 i appreciate you to bits :) this chapter is... very long. like double the length of the other chapters. i had a lot to say. i hope you enjoy it!!

After America there’s Kate, who apparently spent a little time on Clint’s farm before making her way to Tony’s. She’s very purple and very perky, and it should be a nice change of pace from America’s constant disapproval of him, but there’s a hell-raising look in her eye that reminds Tony of one too many of his craziest ex-girlfriends. Plus, she and America get closer and friendlier every day, and that team up is definitely going to end with something (or someone) on fire.

After Kate there’s Eli, another one of Steve’s. Steve’s personality seems to be split evenly between Eli and America - America has his temper, his wit, his occasional arrogance, and Eli has his meticulous tactical mind, his seriousness, that solemn, steady part of Steve filled with patriotic purpose. Tony watches in quiet recognition as the other kids, in the absence of Steve or sometimes Tony, slowly start to look to Eli for guidance. He emerges as a sort of natural leader, and even Tony can’t find something snarky to say about that.

And after Eli there’s...

“Pete?” Tony asks, his mouth twisting into a grimace that’s half annoyed and half reproachful.

Peter Parker, who is currently sitting criss-cross applesauce on Tony’s kitchen counter and snacking contentedly at one of Steve’s muffins, at least has the good sense to, upon seeing Tony, organize his features into something vaguely guilty.

He’s flanked by two other kids whose names are currently escaping Tony. He wants to say one of them is called “Led” but that doesn’t sound quite right.

“Should we leave?” one of the kids asks - Led, perhaps? - glancing nervously between Tony and Peter.

“Fuck that,” the other kid says, examining Tony with a cool, disapproving stare, “like I’m missing out on this drama.”

“That wasn't a rhetorical question, so I'm going reiterate in the direction of the _only_ person I'm talking to right now - _Peter_?” Tony questions, still incredulous.

Peter swallows the bit of muffin he was chewing and raises his hand in an awkward wave. “Hi, Mr. Stark.”

“What are you doing here?” Tony folds his arms over his chest. The ‘you weren’t invited’ feels implied.

“I’m sorry, I know this is kind of an imposition, but, well, Riri and I have been talking—“

“Riri?” Tony cuts in, because the fact that Riri and Peter talk will fuel his nightmares for days to come. “How do you know Riri?”

“We, uhhhh..... follow each other on Instagram,” Peter says sheepishly, and Tony has no idea whether or not to believe that. “Anyways, she told me you were helping with the suit and that it was getting better every day, and that there’s kind of a team forming out here, so I thought maybe since it’s a team of kids not really led by you I’d—“

“No,” Tony says, and for a brief moment, he wants Steve to be here. Steve would take one look at Tony’s face and clear the entire house so he could have a little space to deal with this. In lieu of a star-spangled knight coming to rescue him, Tony tucks his anger tightly against his chest and says “no” again, sharp and insistent.

Peter looks stubborn, Led looks scared, and the other one looks.... the same as she did when they first initiated conversation, cool and critical.

“With all due respect, Mr. Stark, I don’t see how you could—“

“No,” Tony repeats, “you died, Peter. Barely more than a year ago, you died. I don’t see how you think this is a point of negotiation.”

Peter takes a small, steadying breath. The one who’s not Led - the girl - has her hand loosely placed on his ankle. “I didn’t die forever. There’s still work to do. I took a break, for a while, but Mr. Stark... nothing’s changed. This is still what I want and I think I’m just getting started.”

Tony maybe always knew that that was true, but he hoped he’d never have to contend with it in this house, so soon after their first parting, his own wealth once again bankrolling Peter’s one-man death quest.

...well, he pauses, considering his other guests. It’s more of a 5-man death quest now. Tony can’t decide if that’s better or worse. Steve would probably say better. Tony isn’t so sure.

“Does May know you’re here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do your two cronies’ parents know they’re here?”

“Yes, sir.”

He’s not Tony’s kid. Peter belongs to someone else, owes answers and justifications for doing this to someone else. He repeats this in his mind once, twice, three times, but the knowledge does nothing to abate this looming sense of responsibility, the one that clouds Tony’s judgment and makes it hard to sleep. He needs a fucking drink.

“You’re not allowed in the workshop,” Tony says brusquely, “and my rule is everyone out by 9:30.”

Peter looks like he wants to say more, but Tony doesn’t have the patience to hear it. He turns around, walks away, and digs his phone out of his pocket to call Steve.

 

* * *

 

Peter shows up, he calls Steve. Riri asks him about death, he calls Steve. The oven stops working, he calls Steve. He forgets the word for ‘wrench’, he calls Steve.

This is dangerous. It feels safe, when he can see Steve and touch him, but the second he leaves for the night Tony’s filled with this encroaching dread that he’ll never come back. Tony hasn’t forgotten how to live without him, he could never, after the kind of distance they’ve endured, but he knows it’ll hurt like a mother if they ever go down that path again. At some point in the past year he’d just forgotten, forgotten about protecting himself and protecting his heart, and while he wasn’t paying attention, a familiar, long-forgotten ache kicked up in his chest. Tony thought he was too old for this kind of thing - he has grey in his hair these days, for god’s sake, he should at least be a little wiser.

No such luck.

He’s lying awake in his bed, shoulders pressed against the frame, sheets pooling around his waist. His forehead is damp with sweat and his heart is hammering rabbit-quick in his chest. The clock reads 2:43 AM.

“Friday?” he asks, rubbing at his eyes.

“You should get some rest, boss.”

“Call Steve.”

A mere twenty minutes later there’s someone knocking on the door of his house. Very efficient delivery service, he thinks nonsensically, stumbling out of his bed and tugging on a ratty t-shirt as he makes his way downstairs.

He opens the door to find Steve in his pajamas, too, loose sweatpants with worn out elastic and one of those ribbed white tank tops he seems to wear under everything.

“How are you not cold?” Tony asks, voice rough with sleep.

“Genetics,” Steve says shortly, “what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Tony leans up against the doorway. Steve looks like he wants to touch Tony but he won’t until he has explicit permission. Tony wants to grant him that, wants to feel Steve’s arms around him more than he wants to breathe, but the words are stuck in his throat. “M’Fine, I just couldn’t sleep.”

Steve nods slowly. “Me either.”

They stand in silence for a moment, Steve stiff in the doorway and Tony draped loosely against the frame. Tony knows - knew even before he called - that he probably shouldn’t have done this, but even still, just seeing Steve feels like some kind of relief.

“Do you want me to come in?”

Tony nods.

Steve comes in, shuffling behind Tony and guiding him out of the doorway, one hand lightly hovering over the small of Tony’s back. He doesn’t move away but he doesn’t touch either, just gently but assertively ushers Tony into the kitchen. Tony collapses easily into one of the stools next to the island. There’s a chocolate stain on it from a couple days ago - he thinks America and Kate were helping Steve bake brownies. (Well. Kate was helping. America was eating stuff.)

“Jesus Christ,” Steve mutters, rifling through Tony’s cabinets with his nose wrinkled in disapproval, “all you have is Red Bull and coffee. I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to refrigerate Red Bull. Where is all the jasmine green tea I bought you?”

“Riri blew it up,” Tony croaks. “In the name of science.” He folds his arms over the counter and tucks his forehead against them, expelling a heavy sigh. He’s not sleepy but he’s exhausted, feeling it settle deep and aching in nearly every bone in his body.

Steve can’t find the tea anywhere (‘cause Riri really did blow it up) so he makes Tony hot chocolate and fishes some leftover cake out of the freezer, throwing it into the microwave and starting his meticulous defrosting protocol. Tony get the vague sense he ought to help, but the last reserves of his energy dried up after he answered the door.

“Should I call someone else? Rhodey? Pepper?” Steve murmurs. He’s standing next to Tony, looking down at him with wide, concerned eyes. He hesitates, then reaches out and brushes the backs of his fingers along Tony’s forehead, gently sweeping his hair out of his face. It’s the kind of touch that’s so gentle, so tentative, that Tony could easily shrink away from it if he wanted to.

He doesn’t. He curls his fingers into the front of Steve’s shirt and tugs, clumsy and uncertain, like he’s still half asleep. Steve comes down easily, but he braces one hand on the edge of the kitchen counter, maintaining a little distance between them as he stares at Tony with hard, questioning eyes. He’s close enough that Tony can feel the warmth of his breath. His mouth looks soft and familiar. _Kiss me,_ Tony thinks, but Steve doesn’t, just stares for a few dragging seconds and purses his lips. 

“What?” Tony asks.

“Don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Don’t think what’s a good idea?” It’s a challenge. Steve knows it is, from the way his mouth takes on a skeptical kind of tilt.

Steve’s locked on Tony’s eyes and Tony can read desire in the lines of his expression, knows that this is what Steve looks like he wants something but he’s determined to deny himself. Tony’s fingers loosen where they’re clasped around Steve’s shirt. The moment freezes and breaks apart between them.

“Why can’t you sleep?”

Tony pulls away entirely and reaches for his hot chocolate. He takes a small sip and tries not to feel too much like a reprimanded child. “I’m worried. There are too many kids.”

“They’re not yours.”

“Feels like they are.”

The microwave beeps obnoxiously. Steve moves away for a second, and Tony dimly registers the sound of him plating up cake, retrieving silverware. He sets it in front of Tony with a dull thud, and Tony regards it warily. He picks up a fork and pokes it. Steve is truly in league with Satan, if he can make a cake that still looks good after half a month in the freezer and a thorough defrosting.

Steve settles into the seat next to Tony, picking up his own fork and sectioning off a bite. They’re silent for a few moments.

“You can’t stop any of them from doing this, Tony,” Steve says, shaking his head. Tony looks at him and finds Steve already staring, eyes kind and attentive as ever. “You can discuss it with their parents. You can advise them on a different career path. You can try to keep saving the world yourself. But the fact that they’ve all gotten this far — it just means they’re really determined to do some good.”

“They’re too young,” Tony shoves a very large bite of cake into his mouth, and doesn’t bother swallowing completely before he says, “they’re... squishy.”

“So are you,” Steve says softly, prodding Tony’s arm as evidence. “But you did alright anyways. Look, Tony, you might not be able to stop them, but you also don’t have to help them. You tell them to leave, you really tell them you’re not interested in helping, they’ll listen. They’re smart kids.”

“I don’t know what they want from me. I was bad at this! The saving the world crap. I _failed_.”

“Everybody fails sometimes,” Steve shrugs, setting down his fork, “doesn’t mean you didn’t do things right, too.”

It’s the kind of encouragement that used to make Tony want to punch Steve in the face - that relentlessly positive worldview, that search for hope in even the darkest corners of a life or a shitty situation or the aftermath of a loss. Knowing what Tony had known, knowing that Steve’s outlook would only ever break both their hearts - it had been unbearable.

These days, it feels like something else.

Tony rubs his eyes again.Maybe he’s a little sleepy, now. “There are other people. People that would be better at this than us.”

Steve shrugs again, not helpless, not resigned, just accepting. “Yeah, probably. But they showed up _here_.”

 

* * *

 

When he leaves for a drive with Steve, his house is empty. When he comes home an hour and a half later, there are seven children sprawled haphazardly across his living room.

Riri sits on the floor, the closest to the TV. Work goggles rest atop her curls and her eyes are glued to the screen, body leaned forward as if in anticipation. Tony can’t see her face from this angle, but he imagines it’s a combination of excitement and concentration. There’s a discarded writing pad to the right of her, where she appears to have scribbled a series of complicated notes and diagrams.

The rest of the kids are sitting on or up against the couch. Peter’s stationed at the arm, crouched up like a spider, his friend whose name is apparently Ned is taking up the couch cushion next to him. The one Tony suspects is Peter’s girlfriend is leaned up against Ned’s legs. Kate, America, and Eli take up the rest of the space, squished together in a way only Kate really looks comfortable with. Tony quietly observes America sneak a glance at Kate out of the corner of her eye, cheeks suspiciously pink. A few feet away from them, Peter’s looking down at Michelle with a funny face too.

Disgusting, Tony thinks. But it’s not enough to distract him from the fact that they seem to be watching footage from the battle against the Chitauri, six years ago on the streets of Manhattan.

“Is this supposed to embarrass me?” Tony asks, arms folded over his chest. “Because I maintain that I kicked ass in this fight.”

Everyone except Riri turns their head to look at him. It reminds him eerily of a documentary he and Steve watched about lemurs two weekends ago.

“You did kick ass in this fight,” Peter says, and his girlfriend says ‘suck up’. He goes back to looking at her fondly.

“It was a good fight,” Eli chimes in, rubbing at his jaw. He looks so much like a grown-up sometimes that Tony has to actively remind himself that he’s still just a kid. “Minimal civilian casualties, cleared the city best you could, made use of the things you were capable of together.”

On screen, Tony fires a repulsor blast at Steve’s shield. The resulting white-hot beam takes out a row of Chitauri. Tony smiles a little despite himself, a soft, forgotten thing.

“We barely knew each other,” Tony admits, catching Eli’s eyes. That might’ve been their biggest mistake. They got into bed together as a world-saving team without really taking the time to understand each other, understand what each person was hoping to get out of the avenging arrangement. It had made for problems down the line.

Everyone else has turned back to the screen, but Eli is still looking at him with this quizzical expression. Tony doesn’t yield, and his eyes finally dart away, attention recaptured as Kate accidentally elbows him in the side.

“You should come watch with us,” Kate chimes. Natasha shoots someone on screen. “It’s very fun! And educational.”

There was a time in Tony’s life where his answer to such a request would be a resounding ‘no’. He almost says that on instinct, actually, because he and Steve are supposed to work on the garden this afternoon and he still isn’t entirely convinced that he trusts any of these kids -- 

\-- but there’s something about Riri that makes him stall. She hasn’t so much as glanced back at him since he came in, even though Tony knows she’s watched this footage - she’s watched the footage of every public Iron Man fight from the past ten years - about a million times. And Tony knows it isn’t because she puts the Avengers up on some kind of pedestal - it’s the exact opposite. She’s watching so closely because she’s cataloging his every mistake, already programming and re-programming the schematics in her mind to work through or around Tony’s most obvious pitfalls.

She’s smart, she’s tough, and she’s fifteen, so she’s idealistic as hell. That combination of traits has terrified him from the second she first turned up on his doorstep, and it still does, but watching her now makes him realize that maybe possibility and opportunity exist alongside the threat of danger. Maybe they always have.

Tony sighs, pulls his phone out of his pocket, and shoots off a quick text to Steve. _Come inside. Your children are misbehaving._

Steve gets him back just three seconds later. _So when they’re annoying they’re MY children?_

Tony sighs again and drags one of the chairs from the dining room out in front of the TV. Everyone watches as he sets it up a healthy distance away from the couch and settles into it with finality.

“Whatever. This is not a Q&A,” he tells them, and fires off another text to Steve that reads _they’re always annoying_.

 

* * *

 

Things come together surprisingly easily after Tony just… lets go. He listens to the kids, he talks to Steve, and he writes a lot of checks.

The first thing they need is a new training facility. Throwing each other around on Tony’s property is great, but it only takes them so far; Kate needs targets, Peter needs climbing walls, and Riri needs her own lab. It would’ve been a bitch to build it all from scratch, but thankfully Steve reminds them that there already is an Avengers compound. It just maybe needs a renovation.

Whipping it into shape takes more time than Tony would’ve liked. There are long, grueling phone calls, and the help of one Virginia “Pepper” Potts must eventually be enlisted to get property rights all sorted out. Apparently, SHIELD technically owns the place since Tony relinquished it during the many phases of asset liquidation following Siberia. Rhodey still operates out of the compound, and so does Sam, but neither really use it to train anymore. It takes a lot of fancy lawyering to get it back under Tony’s complete management, and then it’s even more work to stock it with all the stuff this new team needs.

He whines about it constantly, but Steve just says it’s a good thing he’s got so much time these days, since he’s so old and retired. That usually shuts Tony up.

Steve spends far more time at the compound than Tony. His sublet with Mr. MacDonald comes to an end, so he spends half his nights in Tony’s house and half his nights in the on-sight dormitory. (He and Tony continue to sleep in separate rooms, of course. Everyone thinks they’re fucking - Sam’s insufferable about it whenever they cross paths - and it’s a little annoying that no one’s giving Tony credit for how great he’s doing restraint-wise. He’s not totally sure why they’re restraining anymore, but hey, damn it if he’s gonna be the first one to say ‘chicken’.)

Tony is pretty vehement that none of the kids actually move into the compound - or, none of the kids except for America, who appears to be a parent-less rolling stone who sleeps wherever she wants. Tony knows this bothers Steve immensely, knows he’s been trying to persuade her to take one of the rooms on the farm property, make it her own, but she’s somehow more stubborn than the both of them combined.

“She says she doesn’t belong to this earth, she can’t have a home here,” Steve rubs a hand over his face, expelling a long-suffering sigh, “she has a ‘responsibility to the multiverse’.”

“Kids these days,” Tony muses, tinkering with a piece of Riri’s new faceplate, “they don’t call, they don’t write, and they’ve always got the worst excuses.”

Though he’d take America in in a minute, Tony privately thinks any distance they can manufacture is a good thing - a solid reminder that none of these children are really theirs. He and Steve may like them (love them, probably, though Tony’s not ready to admit to that yet), but at the end of the day, they have absolutely no claim to them. Steve and Tony’s job is to give them the tools they need to defend themselves, to be their friends, and to make sure that every parent has all the available information at any given time.

(His relationship with May Parker is on the mend, but it’s taken a lot of long phone calls, painfully awkward dinners, and prodding from Steve to get there.)

The facility is about an hour and a half away from the farm, so Tony still sees a lot of the kids. He misses Riri the most, but she checks in every few days, either via video messaging or simply turning up on his doorstep to ask for help with the armor. She turned sixteen, recently, so she drives now. She’s not supposed to do it without an adult in the car but she never follows that rule and Tony figures if they’re going to let her pilot a flying suit of armor, they can’t really split hairs over a Toyota. Tony checks over her car engine every time she comes over while Steve distracts her inside with baked goods. She’s more than capable of doing it herself, but it’s good to be certain.

Tony’s a big fan of certainty these days. He likes waking up, heading to the lab, and splitting his time between R&D for SI and new gear requests for the kids (they call themselves the Young Avengers. Tony calls them Riri & Company.) Every now and again, Pepper and Rhodey will visit, or he and Steve will go on some sickly-sweet domestic outing, but barring that, his life is completely predictable.

 _Never boring_ , he thinks, watching Riri and America go at it, Riri outfitted in a shiny new suit of armor and America making full use of her portal popping abilities. _But predictable._

 

* * *

 

“You’re not making pancakes?” Tony asks, propping his elbows on the kitchen table and staring blankly at Steve

Steve shoots him a hurried glance over his shoulder. “Why would I be making pancakes?”

“The last four Thursdays you’ve made pancakes.”

“Have I really?”

“Yes,” Tony insists, annoyed, hungry, and only halfway through his first cup of coffee, “I thought it was a tacit agreement that Thursdays are pancake days. You’ve submitted my stomach to Pavlovian conditioning. It’s Thursday, I have a craving.”

“Well, this Thursday you’re going to have to make your own,” Steve is completely unsympathetic as he moves around the kitchen like a whirlwind. He’s packing lunches - they’re for America, Eli, and Peter, Tony thinks they’re supposed to train today - and also trying to throw together a sufficient breakfast for himself. His hair is a mess and his flannel his half hanging off his shoulders. Captain America is never this poorly put together an hour before he has a social engagement - Steve might even be late today.

Tony takes a small sip of his coffee, unreasonably pleased that he continues to be such a horrible influence.

“Are you gonna forget to eat if I don’t put the food out for you?” Steve asks, snapping Tony’s attention back onto him. Steve puts a whole bagel in his mouth, holding it between his teeth as he fits lids over three pieces of Tupperware and places each into a separate brown bag.

“Are you going to try and eat that bagel in one bite?” Tony shoots back, eyeing him critically. Steve’s eyes narrow and Tony can tell he’s momentarily considering swallowing the thing whole just to spite Tony. He ends up just taking massive bites, and by Tony’s count he polishes the whole thing off in five.

What a man.

“I really have to get going,” Steve, chewing his last bit of bagel and swallowing hastily, washing it down with a sip of coffee straight from the pot. He shrugs on the other side of his flannel and tucks the keys to the truck in his pocket, gathering the brown bags up in one hand. “I’m already behind schedule.”

“America’s going to shoot lasers out of her eyes at you,” Tony agrees.

Steve’s mouth tips into an absent smile. “You promise to eat?” he asks, fishing his phone out of his back pocket and scrolling through text messages.

“Yes, dear,” Tony rolls his eyes, taking a sip of his coffee.

Steve doesn’t even seem to register the answer as he crosses out of the kitchen in four long strides. He pauses at the table where Tony is seated, but Tony is distractedly scanning the day’s headlines on his tablet, wondering if he’s got a video conference with Happy this afternoon or tomorrow? He ought to start using his calendar, he can never keep these things straight nowadays.

He’s about to pull up the app when several things happen in quick, seemingly instinctual succession: Steve braces a hand on Tony’s shoulder and leans to his height. Tony instinctively turns towards him and smiles. Steve presses their lips together, a pleasant, sweet pressure.

It’s over in a second and a half, clearly only meant to be some kind of goodbye, but, judging by the sudden surprise on Steve’s features, not the one he’d intended to dispense. He’s stunned Tony into inaction, too, his fingers hovering over his tablet as they breathe lightly against each other’s mouths.

“Um—“ Steve says.

“Well—“ Tony cuts in.

They both fall quiet for another half second, and then they’re coming together in a way that feels a lot more intentional. Tony pushes aside his coffee and his tablet, placing his hands on either side of Steve’s face and kissing him, deep, hard, with just the barest hint of teeth. Steve still has one hand on the juncture of Tony’s neck and shoulder, but the other has moved to his side, holding it in a firm, anchoring grip.

They can’t really do a whole lot at this angle, so Tony gets up out of the chair, barely breaking apart from Steve to do it, and leans back against the end of the kitchen table. Steve kicks away the chair he was sitting in and properly wraps his arms around Tony’s waist, one hand trailing past the small of his back, their bodies pressed together. “Tony,” Steve pulls back, breathes against his mouth, but Tony recaptures his lips, unwilling to let this moment completely slip away from him. Steve gives into him for a second, kisses Tony thoroughly and attentively, somehow unbearably sexy even though he tastes a little like an Asiago bagel, but eventually he pulls back again, blue eyes brimming with questions.

He keeps his hand on Tony’s ass, though, so that’s something.

“I didn’t come back into your life to do this,” he insists, pressing his forehead against Tony’s, “I just wanted to be here for you, I could tell you were—“

“—I forgive you,” Tony interrupts, wrapping his arms more solidly around Steve’s neck. He can’t let that carefully fixed distance push its way back between them. At least not yet - not when Steve looks so sweet, lips kiss-bitten, hair mussed, cheeks red. “And I want this. I’ve thought about it.”

“I know I’ve made mistakes,” Steve runs his hand soothingly up and down Tony’s side, long, broad strokes of pressure that send shivers darting down Tony’s spine.

“You’re not the only one,” Tony replies bluntly, then kisses the bewilderment off Steve’s mouth, and the rest of the would-be back-and-forth is lost in the sighs and shifting space between them. It’s been so long since they’ve done this - Tony hasn’t been with anyone since Pepper, and he doesn’t suspect Steve’s gotten any in the past year either. He feels a sudden spike of worry at his salt and pepper hair, at the new wrinkles creased along his body, the ones Steve will have never seen before. He pulls back, for a minute, breath coming out in broken pants at Steve keeps touching him, hands slipping under the hem of his shirt. “I look different—“ he says flatly, fingers curling softly around the back of Steve’s neck, “I’m different— I mean, I’m older, so it’s a little—“

Steve kisses him. It doesn’t feel like he’s trying to cut Tony off - doesn’t feel like he’s disregarding the words. It feels like he’s telling Tony he hears him, he knows this, and it doesn’t matter. The movement of his lips becomes maddeningly slow, his hands matching pace as he rubs teasing circles at the base of Tony’s spine. This goes on and on, until Tony is throwing a leg around his hip, gently urging him further.

“You trying to let an old man catch up?” Tony asks, quirking an eyebrow and curling his fingers into the front of Steve’s shirt.

Steve rolls his eyes and brushes his lips against Tony’s, the barest suggestion of a kiss. “I just want to make you feel good.”

It’s hard to go slow, after that.

For a solid minute Tony can’t foresee either himself or Steve getting it together enough to go upstairs, so he thinks they’re really gonna go all the way right there on the kitchen counter, but then Steve’s phone rings.

“Don’t answer it,” Tony says immediately, and tries to snake a hand into Steve’s pocket. His jeans are already undone, hanging loose around his waist, and Tony’s movement jerks them down around Steve’s knees, causing him to stumble clumsily to right himself. He kicks the pants off entirely and grabs at Tony, missing once before his fingers close around his wrist.

“Probably America,” Steve is grinning, wide and breathless as he swipes the device away from Tony. “Just give me a second, I’ll take this call and tell her I can’t come in today.”

“Very irresponsible, Captain,” Tony purrs, right up by his ear, and Steve gently slaps his ass in reprimand.

“Hello,” Steve says, phone pressed against his ear, he’s still smiling softly at Tony, one arm wrapped loosely around his waist.

And then the person on the other end of the line starts talking, and the joy drops from Steve’s face entirely.

 

* * *

 

Tony hadn’t considered the possibility that, with the introduction of so many miniature superheroes, a few miniature supervillains would pop up to match.

Contrary to what her leather fetish gear might suggest, the footage Friday dug up of Oubilette “Exterminatrix” Midas suggests that she can’t be older than twenty-three, maybe twenty-four. He feels like he ought to be calling her parents rather than dismantling her evil plot. He supposes, if they’re efficient, there’ll be time for both.

He quickly determines that she has Peter and Riri somehow incapacitated, or unable to use their suits. Tony can gather data from their respective AIs - Karen and Monty - but the most recent logs indicate that neither of them are even attempting to communicate with Tony, nevermind orchestrate an escape.

He’s waiting for Steve now, all suited up and antsy. He has Friday read back Peter and Riri’s vitals. He’d hesitated before setting up that kind of access in their suits, but at this moment, he’s never appreciated a decision so much in his life.

“Friday?” he asks quietly. Riri and Peter’s hearts are still beating steady, no recent acceleration that would indicate torture or anything torture-adjacent.

“Yeah, boss?”

“Send the most recent stats to Ms. Williams and May Parker, please.”

“You got it.”

He’d called them both as soon as he had the full information. Mrs. Williams had sounded shaken, but seemed to respond well to Tony’s attempts at reassurance. May Parker had dispensed a tight thank you, and a request for continual communication.

“America’s rearing to leave,” Steve emerges from the workshop, adjusting the straps of his uniform around his wrists. The suit T’Challa’s sister made him was destroyed in the last battle, so he’s wearing an older one, something dark and functional but still vaguely patriotic. “We’re lucky she even called us at all. Get a pin on their location, yet?”

“East Village, ‘round Gramercy.”

“Alright. I’ll let her know.”

“And I suppose you’ll be hitching a ride with me?”

“Well,” Steve’s mouth tips into a crooked, humorless smile, “If you think it’ll tire you out, old man—“

“Asshole,” Tony accuses, and pushes off the edge of the counter, tapping at the center of his palm to re-engage the suit’s helmet.

They walk out together in silence, though Tony can’t help but sneak glances at Steve out of the corner of his eye, glad for the cover of the faceplate.

“I think you should bring back the old costume,” he says sagely, stopping in the middle of the lawn. He holds an arm out and Steve easily steps into his space, tucks against his side.

“I’ll take it under advisement,” Steve rolls his eyes, fitting the cowl over his head. “You ready?”

“Hold on.”

Steve’s breath hitches sharply as they lift off and Tony’s arm tightens around his waist. It’s a little silly, but the part of his mind that isn’t agonizing over Riri is thinking: _this_. This is how it always should’ve been, Steve there, at his side, reminding him what he’s fighting for.

 

* * *

 

Peter has a black eye and Riri’s bleeding from her temple, so even though the so-called Exterminatrix and her army of freaky teen girl robots don’t really require much energy to take out, Tony and Steve come at them like they’re battling the biggest bad they’ve ever fought. He thinks they’re maybe stepping on America’s moment, because she seems to be hell-bent on taking out every one of Steve’s targets before he can get to them, though Steve is quick enough and angry enough that it’s actually not that much of a deterrence.

The fight spreads - moves into the city like these things usually do, Exterminatrix’s animatronic teeny boppers pouring into the street and screeching discordant electronic music into the air. Tony gets Peter and Riri to work on taking care of their surroundings, evacuating the area, protecting civilians. To his initial surprise, Riri doesn’t push him on it. She wants a little of the glory, yeah, but she cares about people more than she cares about anything else.

(He’ll say this to her, days later. He’ll tell her - looking down at his work because he can’t meet her eyes as he says it - that she has an incredible mind, but an even more incredible heart. And she will break into a truly radiant smile, rap her knuckles against the helmet of her armor, and say, in a decisive voice, ‘Ironheart’.)

(Everything ends, but everything begins, too.)

Tony’s forgotten what it’s been like to work this closely with Steve. They fought side by side in the final battle against Thanos’ army, but the chaos had been so overwhelming, so full of people, that Tony was working with a new Avenger from minute to minute. Here — today — he and Steve move like the duo they barely ever got the chance to be, trading quips and orders back and forth on the comms, leveraging each other’s strengths with startling efficiency.

Robots fall, Steve and America punch their way through an army, and Exterminatrix loses it, little by little, and starts shrieking as she fights, which Tony would typically find disconcerting, but at this stage in his career all he can really think is ‘Jesus. Shut UP.’

It’s America who deals the final blow to Oubilette Midas. To both Steve and Tony’s shock - she makes one last play for diplomacy, deals out that idealistic ‘you don’t have to do this’ type speech, and gets charged with a machine gun for her troubles.

This is how he discovers that America’s skin is bulletproof.

Seconds later, the Exterminatrix is lying in a crater in the concrete, blinking and shaking faintly as America restrains her properly.

By the time Kate and Eli show up, the fight is mostly over. They both help with containment, rounding up the last of the bots, and communicating with the local authorities. Steve and Tony drop their names and support into these conversations, but Steve places a hand on the small of his back, a way of urging him to step away, to let the kids learn how to do this. It’s a strange feeling, releasing some of the responsibility that’s been looming across his shoulders for the past decade and a half, but he realizes that he’s been doing it more and more these past few weeks.

Tony calls parents, makes sure everyone has a ride home. He hugs Peter and rumples his hair. He hugs Riri - for the first time, he notes with a sliver of fear and surprise - and they hold each other tight, her curls tickling the bridge of his nose. When they pull apart, she punches him in the arm - perhaps a little too hard - and sniffles.

“You wanna head home?” Steve asks. He’s pulled the cowl off and his usually flat, neat hair is sticking up in funny directions. Tony grins at him.

The flight back home is quiet. They could talk over the comms, but they don’t, just watching the city pass beneath them in silence. Tony’s lived the biggest parts of his life in four different places with four different people - Rhodey in Massachusetts, Pepper in Malibu, Yinsen in Afghanistan, and Steve in Manhattan. It’s been an incredible life, but watching the skyscrapers and city road disappear on the ground beneath him, he can’t say he’s unhappy with where he’s finally settled.

They touch down on the farm and Tony taps his chest, lets the armor recede back into itself immediately. Steve isn’t tired - Steve is rarely ever tired, the bastard - but Tony’s not thirty-five anymore, so he stumbles a little as he jogs up the steps of the porch. He pauses with his hand on the doorknob, glancing back at Steve.

“You wanna sit out here for a bit?” Tony asks, chest still heaving a little.

The corner of Steve’s mouth quirks in a teasing smile. “To watch the sunset?”

“Fuck off.”

They sit down with their backs against the front of the house, sides loosely pressed together. Tony doesn’t know what time it is - maybe four o’clock, from the height of the sun in the sky. It’s cold and he’s hungry, but he doesn’t want to move.

“We might still have to do this, every once in a while,” Steve says, head lolling to the side, sharp blue eyes focusing on Tony. “They’ll still need help.”

Tony turns to look back at him. There’s a little grime along his face, a shallow cut on his cheek. He doesn’t look worn down, but he doesn’t look alert, either, lazily resting somewhere between. “So we’ll help,” Tony shrugs, mouth tipping in a crooked smile.

Steve smiles back, and Tony meets him halfway when he leans in, placing a gentle hand on Steve’s collar. The press of their lips, now, is an achingly soft, familiar thing. Like the idiotic, sappy fuck he is, the following thought darts quickly across Tony’s mind: he doesn’t mind helping until he’s sixty, until he’s nothing but a pile of bones in a tin can suit, as long as he gets to keep coming home to this.

“You’re sore,” Steve notes the slight wince that pulls across Tony’s face as he leans back.

"No,” Tony says shortly, lacing their fingers together. “A little.”

“Why don’t we go inside and use some of that gel - the one Rhodey sent over. To relax your muscles.”

Tony frowns. That gel had been a part of Rhodey’s most recent birthday gift. It had come with a collection of other comically pointed items such as adult diapers, dentures, black and white movies, and prune juice. “I am not using that,” Tony says, and kisses Steve to shut him up.

Their movements grow unhurried and soft in no time at all, and when Tony pulls back to catch his breath, he takes note of the sinking sun in the corner of his eye. Everything about this moment is pink and hazy soft - the sky, the air between them, Steve.

“Let’s get a swing for the porch,” Steve says, tugging Tony up against his side, almost in his lap. Tony melts helplessly against him, face half tucked into his shoulder, arm thrown loosely around his waist. His eyes are starting to blink closed, now, but he can see Steve through his lashes, smiling down at Tony with this strange combination of mischief and fondness. Tony dimly registers that Steve’s probably planning to smear muscle gel all over his lower back the second he falls asleep.

Asshole.

(Tony loves him.)

“Yeah, honey,” Tony yawns, “whatever you want.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so very fond of all my regulars on this story please come talk to me at any time on my blog quidhitch! again big thank you for seeing it through to the end! i hope you enjoyed <3


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